Dear Freaking Diary
by NomDuClavier
Summary: There are certain things one never talks about, not with one's posse, not even with one's wingman; especially not with one's wingman. This is one of them – Barney feels introspective and confides in the unlikeliest of places - Was named The Mirror Talk.


**HIMYM – Dear F*cking Diary**

**The Mirror Talk**

**Chapter:** The Mirror Talk  
**POV:** Barney Stinson**  
Pairing: **Barney/Robin?**  
Genre:** Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Romance, Human Condition**  
Word count:** ~1250**  
Note:** A drabble in response to a prompt by Roland44 at LJ.

**Summary:** There are certain things one never talks about, not with one's posse, not even with one's wingman; _especially_ not with one's wingman. This is one of them – Barney feels introspective and confides in the unlikeliest of places.

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_Introducing "**public!me**"_

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There are certain things one never talks about, not with one's posse, not even with one's wingman; _especially_ not with one's wingman. This is one of them.

My name is Barney Stinson, and no, we're not at an AA meeting; I'm not introducing myself to a group of strangers here. I am – or would be, rather – if this diary was open to the public. As it stands I'm conflicted enough as it is that I _do_ keep a diary.

Yes, there's the well-known and reasonably well-read blog that everyone knows about. It's not as if I don't advertise its existence. The Barney Stinson writing that however, is – to borrow a phrasing from a secret love of mine, fanfiction – not entirely me, the blog's penmanship is solely the responsibility of _public!me_.

I guess one could say that this is the real _True Story_.

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_Which leaves, by way of reduction: "**private!me**"_

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Private!me is a lot smarter than most people would give me credit for. I don't mean the street smarts everyone knows Barney Stinson possesses in spades; come on, _The Barnacle_ is world famous for his _street,_ and he has the attitude to back it up_._

What appears to the casual – and often not-so-casual – observer as nonchalance is a game designed to throw people off the scent of private!me, a side of me I don't want outsiders to be privy to; heck, most of all, it's my few scarce friends I don't want to be privy to the fact I am – when it's boiled down to a very nasty smelling paste of despair – in reality a very insecure person.

There! You got it out of me.

_Incidentally, should I be concerned I'm talking to my diary as if its a person? As if this highly encrypted file on my computer is a thousand-dollar-an-hour shrink who with his wily ways managed to wring some deeply disturbing truth out of me like blood from a stone?_

I guess it's no worse than my writing this – newly created, granted – diary to start with, and it's the real True Story that people will never hear, something I'll take with me to my grave, something that even my beloved brother knows nothing about... that is the extent to which my insecurities run – he did after all witness the whole "Sensitive Barney" affair, which I now desperately try the convince the world at large was a phase a conflicted twenty-something went through, and that's to the people I trust enough to let know even that tidbit, it took my posse at McLaren's long enough to earn that degree of respect and trust. Even in the setting of mutual confessions of embarrassing stories, I was still deeply conflicted on whether or not to confide in them; if not in them, in whom?

I don't want to be alone, looking in from the outside as people make real connections. Which makes the act that's called public!me – or the Awesome, the cool, the Barnacle – all the more hilarious in a creepy-in-denial sort of way. Yes, I'm introspective like that, you wouldn't know it to look at me.

There's more than just suits, pick up lines, cheese and a bad aftertaste to Barney Stinson, womanizer extraordinaire.

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_She who must not be named_

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The woman who started this mad dash of self-delusion and magic tricks to keep the world at large in an even greater state of confusion about who Barney Stinson really is – never mind what it is that he really does for a living, Please! – is someone who I vow here and now never to speak the name of again.

Running off with a cheap suit like that, at least I have taste when it comes to cloth, his was too cheaply a cut. I wish them, and their divorce lawyer, all the best in the world. No, I'm not cynical.

_Note to self: How do I tell my journal that latter statement regarding cynicism was followed by a cough, exactly?  


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_Motivational posters, self help books, and their ilk_

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When we – the group, or posse – discovered Marshall giving himself pep talks during his relentless pursuit for any job that made some use of his mad lawyer skills, it caused me to do a double take.

First of all, it's not something you wish on a friend.

And yes, I really am a more caring person than I let on, deeply so in fact; it's why catching feelings for Robin left me equally deeply conflicted, picture public!me and private!me duking it out in the privacy of my tortured mind and you have a decent idea what I'm talking about _(and yes, I still realize this is my diary I'm confessing this to)_.

Second of all, it reminded me all too dearly of someone else – me. Everything I hid from everyone, myself included as much as possible – I'm starting to get almost as proficient at fooling myself as keeping the mask in place firmly for everyone that's not me – everything came crashing down on me in crystal clarity high-def, Dolby Digital surround sound included.

If it wasn't so utterly revolting, I'd have a mind to order it made into a documentary to play on my Japanese-made toy. Incidentally while some people consider that garish display of wealth a compensation for something else, the women I do take to bed with me know it's not a compensation for my manhood, let us be very clear on that point.

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_The Mirror Talk_

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The real reason I send women packing in the morning is that, like Marshall in his period of doubt, I talk to my mirror; my period of doubt has been part of my life ever since _she who must not be named_ walked out of my life, leaving my heart a shriveled husk of its former self in my empty – but finely chiseled, let's be honest – chest.

So, indeed, there's more to Barney Stinson. The True Story is that – I suspect like many others in a vibrant but ultimately soulless city like New York – I desperately crave a human connection.

Every time I put on my A-game and nail a bimbo, I hope against hope one day I'll bang _The One_ and manage to convince her to come back later – it's not my casanova skills that'll come up lacking, that much is certain.

I send these women packing because if I ever do come across a woman I'd like to see in my bed more than once – Robin being the only woman ever in my history as new!Barney to earn that distinction; she earns it still – no way in hell do I want her to catch me giving myself a pep talk in the morning, looking at myself in the mirror, spouting affirmation after affirmation, memorized straight from self help book after self help book.

This also means that those motivational posters in my office aren't there because they're "cool."

Truth be told, when it comes to Robin, if I wasn't as absolutely certain as I am that my private!self would be a turn off beyond belief for her – and that thought sickens me, because I really have it bad for her in a way I'll never admit publicly; Lily got a glimpse of a reflection of a shadow of just how much I pine for her – I'd be more than willing to hang my awesomely cool hat up and retire from Barnacleness.

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**Author's note:** Still like Barney like this? - I've decided to turn this into a multi-chapter fic in which we see Barney go to a progressively darker place, turning this into a darkfic over time.


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